


Variations on a Theme: Entangled

by MostlyAnon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Armor, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Undressing, Wedding Fluff, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 23:06:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3399626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostlyAnon/pseuds/MostlyAnon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The mighty Inquisitor, defeated by court finery,” he said. “So this is how it ends.”</p>
<p>Several variations done on the theme of undressing, all set within the Dragon Age universe. Inspired by a DAKM prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tangled

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt initially spawned fills for every pairing I had EXCEPT requested DAO/A. Wrote the DAO/A fill, then decided to write the others as inspiration struck and post here.
> 
> Prompt: _Any het or femslash, with focus on undressing. Bonus for unlacing corsets._

Alistair falls laughing through the door to his— no, now their— chambers, too tangled in the skirts of her gown to do much more than roll into the fall and try to protect his new bride. Her own laughter wraps around him as they fight the fabric to find one another again, (he’s lifting yet another layer when she spies him and places a kiss on his ear, then another on his cheek when he turns.) 

“Maker, whose bright idea was it to wrap brides up in oceans of fabric?” he complains, pushing aside yet more of her gown in a bid to get closer, or at least find a part of her that isn’t… he pauses, runs his hand up, over, and around the bit of her he’s found. Her knee. He has found and fondled her knee, lovingly, right up to the point where he encounters what feels like—

“More fabric?” he asks, incredulously, and ducks his head under her skirt to see a silken garter tied to what appears to be an overlong breastplate made of satin and lace. She pulls him back up by the hair.

“You’re the one who made me a queen,” she reminds him, and he can’t help but smile back at her, chasing her lips as she sprawls back across the acres of silk and satin. (Really, is there any left in his entire kingdom?) He runs his hand up her leg again, but this time finds the dainty bow and pulls, freeing her stocking from the ribbon and pushing his hand up, until it meets firm resistance at the—

“Is this armor?” he asks, breaking the kiss to sit back and stare at her. “I know we’ve been through a lot, but you didn’t need to wear armor to our wedding.”

He has to wait until she stops laughing long enough to give him an explanation, but even after he’s stripped her of it, he fails to see significant difference between her stays and her breastplate.


	2. Lover's Circle

Cullen did not have to search long to find the Inquisitor. The Winter Palace had drained her, despite the calm, polite mask she kept firmly in place throughout the entire mess. The ride back to Skyhold had been subdued, filled with the miscellanea that came with such messes as imperial courts and intrigue. 

She had discarded only the heavy, ornate mask almost immediately, leaving the thing carelessly tossed onto a table. He wondered if she’d still keep the ornate furnishings that the Empress had gifted her, the lavish bed and too soft pillows that never seemed to stay put. The softness was counter to his own spartan quarters, but she seemed to revel in it.

He found her on the balcony, still dressed in the coordinating uniforms their dear ambassador had insisted upon. Flashy, too bright, but it looked good on the Inquisitor and he had to admit, they made a striking scene, upon entering together.

“I’d have thought you would be asleep by now,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist and fitting his chin to the crook of her shoulder. She leaned back into him, shifting only slightly to avoid the sword on his hip. She smelled of the court, perfumes not her own, scented smokes, and incense. He pressed deeper and found the clean, sharp scent that lingered below.

“I was going to,” she said, voice laced with exhaustion, “But this entire thing buttons well, everywhere, and the sash doesn’t unknot and…” she trailed off into the enormity of the task that was getting undressed and he smiled, hiding it against her neck.

“The mighty Inquisitor, defeated by court finery,” he said. “So this is how it ends.”

“You try getting this off after twelve hours of playing ‘The Game,’” she said, adding a dramatic flourish to the last words.

“A challenge, then?” he asked. “Let’s see, I used to be fairly good at this…” he dipped his fingers down to her sash, stilled when he felt her stiffen. “When I was younger!” he added hastily. “I haven’t had much cause to practice lately. But if I remember, the nug goes through the burrow and under the tree…”

He slipped the knot free and tugged. She spun slowly as the sash unfurled from around her, leaving him with a handful of royal blue silk and a woman unbound. He absently knotted the ends together and looped the entire thing around them both, remembering childhood flirtations as she stepped in close. 

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“It’s called a lover’s circle,” he said, feeling his ears burn with a blush. He dipped his head to steal a kiss, hoping to distract her away from it. “If you were lucky enough to get past the sash, you needed to be close to concentrate on the buttons.”

“On the buttons,” she repeated, obviously seeing straight though the line.

“Very difficult things, buttons,” he added, already opening the top few. “A lady’s buttons especially. Too rough, and you’ll pop them off and displease... ah—“ he fumbled one, smiling at his own foolishness. He was too old to play such a game any longer, but when he glanced up at her, he found only rapt attention, a warmth she didn’t hide. “Displease the lady in question.”

“You wouldn’t want that,” she teased, drawing her fingers through his hair.

He canted his head into the caress, slipping the final button free. “It isn’t usually the desired result,” he agreed, slipping his hands inside her coat and sliding it down her shoulders, over her arms and off.


	3. Undone

Varric had picked thousands of locks in his life, deft fingers making short work of complicated tumblers and pins. He had penned endless stories, words, letters, and ink flowing free as blood from Hawke’s blade, the curves and arches of the characters matched only by those of her body. Her armor posed no real match for him, simple buckles releasing as if by magic, falling free at his touch. 

On another woman, silken gloves would have peeled off easily over slender fingers, but silk did not deflect daggers when they slipped past her guard, did not allow her to fling aside an attack and slash sharp edged knuckle-dusters back against her foes. They did not fall heavy onto the floor, forgotten but for a whisper, they were placed out on the table with great care, each finger straightened and stroked.

Vambraces and pauldrons, each heavy with plating, each edged and hoping to cut unwary, clumsy fingers, thick with the weight of the world ever resting upon her shoulders. To get to one was to undo another, to lift her arm carefully above her head and murmur softly into her ear as pieces were eased away. No simple drop to the ground, no carelessly tossed aside gown for her, but each part set aside; her life was too precious to treat that which protected it recklessly. These were laid by gauntlets with grave attention, while she herself removed her baldric and sword.

Piece by piece, armor was shed to reveal the woman beneath, a woman more slender than the metal encasing her might suggest, a woman more slight than her reputation demanded. Bevor, cuirass, cuisses, poleyns, greaves, boots, each piece he knew as well as the skin beneath, beloved for the woman it guarded so well. She wore her armor for the world to see, but her scars were hidden only for him, places where the world had bitten through hard and vicious, found her vulnerable to wound.

Clad in firelight only, she turned to him and stretched, a study in strength, no soft noblewoman meant for silks and finery, but a warrior true, her armor ever worn, no matter how many buckles roguish fingers undid.


End file.
